Page 107 of Crease Collision

“That’s so unfair.”

He tips a hand back and forth. “Maybe. She had a right to want what she did, but so did I. Neither of us could compromise because there wasn’t a middle way that would work, so we ended it. It was a mutual decision, but it felt like the death of a future I wanted, spending my life with someone who loved me.”

The death of a future I wanted.

And here I canceled a date because my head got too loud, and then spent a week wrapped up in a bubble. Shame burns hot under my skin.

I reach for his hand again. “I’m sorry about everything you’ve been through. Sorry for not asking about your past.”

He nods.

“I pulled away,” I tell him, staring at our hands. “That wasn’t fair to you. My head is full of things I haven’t figured out how to say, but I don’t want to lose what we have. I’ll tell you soon.”

I raise my head. He still doesn’t look happy, but his shoulders relax.

“Okay, baby,” he says softly. “But please don’t take too long.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

OSKAR

The locker room buzzes with the usual pre-game energy. Guys are getting into their gear, and everyone is kidding around. I finish dressing and sit in my stall. My backup is with the goaltending coach, so I watch my teammates get ready.

Kai is down the hall in the visitors’ locker room, and I can’t stop thinking about him. Since our talk last week, he’s been doing his part. He answers my calls, sends texts, and shares funny pictures and jokes. He is trying.

But the conversations are too careful. It is better than the silence of California, but we are not where we need to be.

My phone buzzes on the bench beside me, and my pulse spikes when I see his name.

KAI: Good luck. Play hard.

Four careful words. It’s been his pattern all week.

OSKAR: Thanks. You too. Take care out there.

If we can see each other tonight, maybe some of the caution will disappear. Walking on eggshells is no way to sustain a relationship.

As I stand to put my phone on the top shelf, Carson catches my eye. “The Condors are hot,” he says. “Hope you brought your A-game.”

“Better worry about yourself. I always bring my A-game.”

I love the feel of fresh ice. After a Zamboni runs, the surface is so smooth it feels like I’m floating across it. Tonight, the air seems colder when I step into the crease. I spray water on the posts and tap them with my stick. Maybe it’s superstition, but it helps me focus. I wouldn’t play if I couldn’t do it.

After Kai runs through his routine, he looks my way, taps the ice with his stick, and gives me a tiny nod. Professional courtesy, but it makes me feel warm despite the frigid air. I nod back.

Stay calm. Win this game, and we’ll still be in the running.

Right from the faceoff, it’s a classic Fury-Condors matchup. Both teams are fast and physical. Chippy at times. The puck is in my end more than I’d like, but our defense holds. Then, with seven minutes left in the first period, the Condors come at us with a 3-on-2 rush.

Their winger drives the net, and I scramble to cover. The puck thuds against my blocker. The rebound pops loose, right to their center, who’s already winding up for a one-timer.

I throw myself across the crease, and the crowd erupts when the puck thuds into my glove. My neck prickles as I’m getting ready for the next play, pushing the snow away with my skates. I look up and find that Kai is watching me. He taps two fingers on the top of his helmet, our code for you’re standing on your head. A rush of happiness cuts through the adrenaline, and I tap my helmet. Thanks, baby.

Helvete.

Thanks, Mercer is what I should be saying tonight. There’s no room for baby in this game.

As the period winds down with no goals, I manage to keep my focus. The exchange with Kai lives on in my heart.